


this is fantastically wrong

by supremely sinful (I_Am_Not_A_Robot)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Hand Jobs, Hebephilia, I'm Going to Hell, I'm ashamed, M/M, Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Not a reader insert, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Pederasty, Sexual Abuse, Underage Rape/Non-con, all that good stuff y'know, be careful reading this, have fun! :D, holidays don't count, i'm accepting hate mail and death threats every day from 2 AM to 4 PM, or enjoy it... either one's fine, that turns into full non-con, wooo i'm just on a ROLL with this fucked up shit aren't i
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Not_A_Robot/pseuds/supremely%20sinful
Summary: POV 2nd person, but not a reader insert...- - -You and your son are pretty close. Very close. Really, REALLY close. It's probably weird, but hey, you're not complaining.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> quick little note to keep in mind:  
> i'm sorry, this is really fucked up, and it's written in a terrible POV... but please remember that all of this is fiction and none of these events are connected to my real life in any way. i'm not being harassed, i'm not sexually harassing anyone, and i don't support relationships like this.  
> the things the abuser thinks and does do not support my own views!

You and your son are very close. 

It started after the divorce, really. Your wife just left one day— she took 30 grand, a set of antique teacups, and deserted the family before the sun had risen, leaving nothing but a note telling her son that she still loved him, but this family had just grown too stressful to be around. 

You don’t know why you did it, but your son was devastated, and you didn’t know how else to ease the pain... but yes, one week after she’d gone and your heart had grown weary from the sound of crying floating down the hall, you began to poison your son’s mind against her. Told her that she was lying in that note just so you and him wouldn’t come after her. Told him that she had been cheating, and you had lied through your teeth when you said that when you first got married she’d confessed she never wanted children (but you did! You did, and you loved your son terribly). You told your son his mother was a horrible person behind closed doors, and she hid it behind a smile all these years just so she could leech money off her unsuspecting family while she drank herself silly and had sex with other men. 

Your son believed you, because he was only 8 at the time. 

And since then he’s only truly trusted you, and he trusted you with _everything_. 

He got a bad grade? Never hid it. 

Fought a kid and got suspended? You took a few days off that week to go kayaking and have fun. 

Developed a crush on somebody? You helped him out. But both him and the girl were only in fifth grade at the time, so nothing ever came from that. They went to separate middle schools, and never saw each other since. 

And now he’s woken you up at night. You blink in the total darkness, rubbing your blurry eyes and rolling over to look at the clock on your bedside table. 1:14 AM. “What’re you doin’ up?” you slur tiredly. 

“I— something’s happened.” His voice is worried. 

You immediately move to turn on the light. Your eyes cry out at the sudden light blanketing the room, but it’s a small price to pay if your son is in need of your help. “What is it?”

He gestures helplessly at his boxers, young face a mask of discomfort and confusion. “My... it feels weird,” he said. 

_...Oh._

You squint, look a little closer, and can see the little tenting there. “Your dick?” you ask, wondering about that sudden heat in your gut as you stare down at the young boy. 

He nods in confirmation. He’s 12 years old, so you can’t say you weren’t expecting this day to come. Pride and warmth fills you— he’s growing up. The sadness is there, yeah, but look! He’s becoming a man. 

You scoot over just a bit, allowing him to climb up into bed next to you. Turning to face him, you begin to have the talk. “It’s completely normal for boys your age,” you start. 

He nods again. No annoyance or impatience anything like that, so you assume your efforts to keep him innocent have worked out well. This is the first time he’s hearing about any of this. 

You’re not really sure how to say this, but you and your son are very close, so most of the embarrassment is completely absent. “...Uh. Your body is growing, and as it matures it will start to produce sperm, which are those little things that... get women pregnant.”

“Wait, ew. Is this about, um... sex?”

“Well, yes. But you’ve got to understand that it’s completely natural, and nothing to be ashamed of. Anyway, it feels hard because a lot of blood rushes there, and that shows you are feeling aroused, or ready for some sort of... stimulation. That means either sex, or masturbation. That’s the word for when you make it feel really good, but there’s no one else around to do it for you. You know it feels good to touch it right?”

“Y-yeah.”

Terrible feelings fill you at the thought of your young boy alone somewhere, perhaps in his room, trying to stifle his own moans as he runs a delicate hand up and down his shaft, trying to figure out what feels best and why it feels so nice... 

You’re not entirely sure why you keep doing awful things, but you can’t stop yourself from doing this. It’s wrong, you know it’s wrong, but really, you and your son are incredibly close, and neither of you feel the shame and awkwardness in being so close and discussing this, so he probably won’t freak out about what you’re going to do...

Gently, you tug those boxers down, looking at his small erection. He barely squirms. It’s far from the first time you’ve seen him naked. You only stopped washing him at 9, which some might consider weird. “Here, let me show you what I mean when I say stimulation.”

You touch it, carefully rubbing your thumb across his dick, slow and most definitely agonizingly playful movements. Your son’s breath hitches. 

You realize _you’re the worst dad in the world_ , and lean over to kiss him on some wild and dirty instinct that you should’ve repressed.

The boy doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. You keep stroking and touching in ways that make his breath grow uneven and his cheeks redden, and with the other hand you pull his shirt up, exposing that pale, thin chest you love so much. 

You kiss him more urgently, and he groans a little, which makes the kiss way wetter and way hotter. _You’re an awful man._

Straddling him, essentially trapping him beneath you, your other hand runs through his dark hair and pulls his head forward, deepening that already messy kiss. You hear him whine, hear him cry out a little bit as you continue to jerk him off, slowly and tortuously. 

“D-dad,” he gasps, so quietly, so softly, and your own dick stiffens. 

Who let you have a _kid_? Who let you keep him all _alone_ in this house, relying on you and _you_ _alone_? Who let you get so _‘close’_ to him? 

“Yeah?” 

“I... it feels weird, I think I’m gonna pee...”

You laugh a little. You laugh, and look in his eyes, hazy with pleasure and so, so trusting. Too trusting. His back suddenly arches, mouth opening and letting out a cry, and you feel warmth cover your hand. 

You sit back up, lifting your hand to see his cum. His head drops backwards onto the pillow, dizzy smile on his lips. Your son’s first real orgasm. 

Your _son’s_ cum, on _your_ hand. You, _his dad_ , just jerked him off. His lips are wet with _your saliva_. His hair is messy, his shirt is bunched up at the top of his chest, his body is growing but it’s still so fragile, so... young. 

He’s _your son._

But you two have always been close.

Is it really so bad if you kiss him just a little bit more? Call it a celebration of his steps towards manhood.

~~If he’s old enough to cum, he’s old enough to get fucked.~~

You pull his shirt all the way off, and he doesn’t even question it. This makes you simultaneously aroused and worried. 

Is this rape or not? Legally, it is. But he’s not saying no, either. He isn’t crying, he doesn’t look scared or hurt or traumatized. That’s a sign to continue, right? 

Throwing your own shirt to the ground and pulling your pajama pants down, you lean back over him. He looks at you, slightly confused but not scared. He’s ready for whatever you’re going to do next... at least, he thinks he is. 

“Son... I love you. Can I show you how much I love you?”

“Yeah...” He seems to be holding his breath. 

“It’s going to feel amazing. Like bliss.”

“Ok...”

You spread his legs a little, lifting him up so his legs can wrap around your waist. He just lets you maneuver him patiently, like a doll. Your dick is aching, and you pull it out. His eyes widen slightly at the size. 

“This might feel a little weird but I promise it will feel so much better in just a bit,” you say, and suck on your pointer finger just a bit before pressing it into his small, tight asshole. Your son flinches, but your grip on one of his thighs clenches unconsciously, and he stills. 

The first finger goes in, and you move it in and out slowly, getting your son used to the feeling. The second finger is added, and he cries out in pain. 

By the third finger, he’s crying. But he isn’t telling you to stop, so that’s a good sign.

You kiss him anyway, as a consolation. 

You kiss him, because you and him are exceptionally close as far as fathers and sons go. 

This time he kisses back, just barely moving his lips against your own, such a sinful thing that makes you heat up and your cock throb. 

You pull your fingers out, and use that newly freed hand to pull his hips up just a little more, positioning yourself right in front of that entrance. His skin is pale, but his cheeks are flushed. You pause to rub his thighs just a bit, something to elicit those soft pleased sounds again.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” you say, knowing fully well that you are. 

Your boy says nothing. 

With that, you push in, loving his sharp scream. 

“Wait,” he gasps, and you pause, letting him adjust to your size. His knuckles are white as he grips your shoulders. “Wait,” he repeats, softer. 

“It’s not going to feel better if I don’t move,” you insist. 

He nods tentatively, and you push deeper in, the friction sending pleasant shivers up your spine. He trembles, and by the time you’re fully in he sobs in relief. 

“It...” _hurts?_ He sucks in a heaving breath, like his lungs feel like they're going to collapse. The air escapes him as a whine. 

He doesn’t finish that sentence, so you claim his mouth again, tasting his lips and teeth and tongue. You moan into his mouth, you do that so unabashedly it’s almost obscene. “I love you so much,” you proclaim, the words buzzing against his lips. “I love you.”

“I— I know.”

You move suddenly, pulling out and then slamming in. His head almost hits the headboard, and he yelps, both in shock and in pain.

“Shhh, shh, just be patient. It’ll hurt at first but it gets better, I promise.” 

“Mhm, okay,” he says, sounding very much like he’s only an inch away from breaking down. 

That’s not good, but at the same time, _this feels so good._

You can’t stop. You really can’t. 

Every following thrust comes fast and hard as you pin him to the bed, letting his arms tighten around your back and letting him cry out into your chest as you steal his virginity — you take it and you desecrate the innocence of his body. You grab it with your searching, sinning hands and tear it apart, just as much as you’re tearing his body. But he’s your son, you reason. He belongs to you in a way. Is it so wrong that his virginity be yours, too? 

_Yes._

_You should go to prison._

You hit his prostate, finding this out when he suddenly shivers and closes his eyes as that wave of invisible bliss hits him. He sharply inhales, letting it all out in a shuddering breath. You’re careful to brush those nerves again — no, find them, pound into them, make it hurt as much as it feels wonderful. You fuck those nerves raw, till pleasure bleeds into agony, so painful he can’t help but scream each time you thrust in, make his tears flow as his body is broken. Make it as torturous as it is heavenly, make it as awful as you can knowing full well he doesn’t know it’s not supposed to feel this bad. “Dad!” He screams— he screams until his throat hurts too. 

You kiss his chest, leaving bruises along his collarbone. Inside he’s so warm, so tight. You feel the blood leaking around your cock, and this just turns you on more. Every scrape of his skin against yours is driving you nuts, and you love him to pieces for it. “You’re beautiful,” you pant. 

He moans, hugging you tighter against him as he cries a little harder too, sniffling. You feel his warm breath on your skin. You feel him, inside and out, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Each thrust sends you in as deep as you can go, stretching his small ass out so much. He’s almost hyperventilating now, his breaths are coming in so sharp and unevenly. At some point he started begging you to stop, yelling and pleading and sobbing, and then a little later he stopped being able to speak at all, and now only the bed-sheets rustling, his wracking sobs and your hitched breathing are the only sounds in the room. His skin is practically glowing in the light cast by the lampshade. 

You fuck him even harder, as if you want to tear him, as if you want to shred every last bit of normalcy you two had as a family. You think back to your wife, and how you never fucked her like this. She could never turn you on like your son did, and he wasn’t even trying to get you aroused! You think about the 24 year age gap between you and your kid, and crack a smile. 

“I love you so much,” you murmur. 

His skin glistens with sweat. His face is streaked with tears, but he smiles up at you. “I l-love you too,” he says, but there is pain and fear in his eyes. 

You love him to _death_. 

Just as you feel your orgasm arriving you pull out, immediately missing the warmth of his body, but just in time to come on him, moaning loudly. That white stuff paints his body obscenely, and he flinches as some of it lands on his face, right under his eyelid. A small shiver runs through his body, and your careful eye catches it. 

“You’re so handsome,” you murmur as you look down at him, your climax still sending white sparks through your body. You caress his cheek with your hand, absently rubbing some of your cum into his cheek with your thumb. “I’m proud of you. Did you like it? That I... was making love to you?” 

You’re sure he wouldn’t call it that. Or maybe he would? Lord knows you did something to his mind, sometime way back when he was 8 and you first started the brainwashing (but in your defense, back then you had no idea it would lead to this).

He smiles shakily. “It— It felt... so good,” he says quietly. It’s a lie, and he doesn’t even know it. 

“You know I adore you, right?”

He swallows. “Y-yeah...”

You smile warmly at him, pressing another kiss to his chest, and then to his throat, lingering there long enough to feel him shiver under you. You kiss his his lips again, feel him try to kiss back, so clumsy, so... young and innocent. 

But he’s not that innocent anymore. 

“I want to make love to you more,” you whisper. 

He pales. “Right now?”

“No, later. Other days. I really... want you, son. Because I love you. I really do.” 

He nods his head, and you finally roll off him, allowing him to get up if he so pleases, to go run to the bathroom and shower or flee to his bedroom to hide. But he does neither of those things. He just lays down next to you, and tries to suppress his trembling when you wrap your arms around him and pull him close. 

He’s there in the morning, thankfully. So you wake him with a kiss and a smile. 

You and your son are exceptionally close, more so than the average father and son. 

And you _love it._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told from the son’s perspective this time... still 2nd POV, still not exactly a reader insert, and still pretty immoral!

You and your dad are very close.

It started after the divorce, really. Your mom just left one day— she took 30 grand, a set of antique teacups, and deserted the family before the sun had risen, leaving nothing but a note telling you that she still loved you, but this family had just grown too stressful to be around. 

And since then you’ve trusted no one more than you trust your dad. He didn’t leave you, after all. You barely keep any secrets, but now... now you sort of wish you had. 

It wouldn’t have happened if you’d just went on Google real quickly instead of to Dad. It wouldn’t have happened if you and your dad weren’t so close. It was _your_ _fault_ , wasn’t it? You didn’t tell him to stop at first, but when you did, he was too deep inside to listen, because apparently you feel very nice. You guess that a person sometimes can’t listen when they’re h— having sex? (It’s feels terrible to admit it.) It was still your fault you didn’t tell him “no” earlier. He would’ve listened then, but no, you had to wait until he was practically delirious with pleasure to plead with him to stop. 

He told you it would feel nice, and it sort of did. But more than that he hurt you. 

He told you he loves you, and that’s true too. You love him back. He said that you’re cute too. You just blushed. 

You know, on a conscious level, that this isn’t right. It’s far from it. Families aren’t supposed to be like this. Monday came around, and you made sure to check the other students for any signs they’d been through what you had. No limping, no bruising under scarves, no nervous glances wary of adults. 

All these you had. You couldn’t help suddenly feeling panicked. What if someone found out? What if they put your dad in jail and made you go live with your mom (who hates your guts)? 

Ever since that night he’s been more friendly, if that’s possible. It wasn’t unusual for you two to hug often, or even kiss each other (but never on the lips, never before that night). Now he hugs you a lot. It seems he always want to hold you in some way; his hands often stray to yours, or maybe your hips, either one. You cuddle on the couch when watching TV. He kisses you good morning and sometimes pulls you to bed with him, a sweet “good night” on his lips. Mostly it’s for only sleep (like beds should be used for), or long, slow kisses in the dark, two heartbeats pounding in exhausted and entangled bodies, but sometimes it’s... not. 

These were the more stressful nights, especially when you had school the next day. You tried to make him promise only to do it on weekends, because sometimes you didn’t sleep well after it and that wouldn’t help in school. Your grades had already begun to drop a bit. 

He just laughed and said he could tell the school to let you take the day off tomorrow. 

And then you were crying again.

Sure enough, the next day you  _ have a cold.  _

You stare at your naked body that morning in the bathroom. The scratches on your hips, thecircular bruises on your neck and left shoulder, the blood and white stuff. He follows you into the shower sometimes, and this time you startle when the door opens. 

“You’ve been in there for a bit, but I didn’t hear the water running,” your dad explains. He hasn’t put his clothes on yet either. “Can I come in?”

“I, uh, of course,” you respond quickly, stepping backwards and deeper into the bathroom so he can swing the door fully open. His eyes look over your battered skin, still hungry. But he doesn’t touch you in a bad way, other than to carefully wash the drying substances off, warm and slightly rough hands holding you close under the falling hot water. 

“Let’s take the day off together.” Steam fills the room, fogging up the mirror. If you look out, you can see the faint, blurry colors of the room and yourself reflected in the perspiring glass. A drop of water bunches up and streaks down the pane, and you follow its descent. 

He kisses the top of your head, washes your hair, and insists that you’re a great kid and the best son anyone could ask for. It’s nice. Much nicer than you were fearing. 

It’s still times when he’s acting lithe way he used to that you like the most. You’re not sure how to feel about the intimate touches, but the moments with him acting like a dad — a dad, and nothing else, because _‘dad’_ is all he needs to be — are your favorite. Fishing, school conferences, shopping... you’ve got great memories of moments out in public. He never acts weird in the presence of others. 

There’s been full  days with only fatherly actions, you two acting the way a family should. But it never lasts more than three days, because he loves your body too much, and being nice with you makes you let your guard down enough for him to...

And this no one discovers.

None of this is known beyond the doors and walls of this house. He told you to keep it a secret, because he doesn’t want to lose you, and that’s fine because you weren’t ever planning on telling anybody. Nothing good would come of that, both of you were sure. 

Winter break comes around. You go to a Christmas movie with him, and celebrate the holiday with a colorful tree and wonderful presents. You bake cookies, decorate them with white and green and red, and try to ignore the surge of emotions you get when you read the letter Mom sent. 

The New Year arrives soon after, and you get drunk for the first time. 

It’s your revelation to yourself that you’ll _never_ do that again. The headache is enough pressure not to by itself. Your dad thought it was absolutely adorable, though. 

Valentine’s... well, you fear that day. It’s been four months since this  thing with your dad started. You just wish everythingwould revert, that you could grab the hand of time and yank them backwards, far before any of this happened, far before you became more than a son to him and he became something else too. 

The students at your school are excited. There’s rumors of who’s dating who, someone said that a seventh grader is dating a sixth grader, the most popular 8th grader has a girlfriend from another school that she’ll be bringing to the dance, and you... you don’t want anybody. It’s silly and stupid, but you’re terrified that if you get too close to somebody, they’ll somehow know. They’ll see through the concealer and straight through your scared eyes into the recesses if your paranoid mind. 

Your friends noticed the change, but it’s been so long that they’ve just accepted it as the new you. You wish they hadn’t. You wish they’d yelled at you until you admitted what was going on. 

Your art teacher pulls you aside once class is over and asks about the most recent project, something Valentine’s Day themed. Paint something with a heart in the focal point, bonus points if it tells a story. It should’ve been fun. 

She’s worried because everything is black and white and grey, and the only color is an angry and frantic red that almost looks like blood and tears. 

You shrug it off, saying you just wanted to paint heartbreak. You say that it seemed artistic. Really, you’d thrown a sort of secret fit, because you just needed to let it all out somehow, all the  pain and  fear . 

Most kids shouldn’t learn how to tiptoe around the house, as silent as a breeze. They shouldn’t know how to avoid the creaks in the old floorboards. 

Most kids also shouldn’t be giving their fathers blowjobs in the morning, choking and in tears. 

So you had grit your teeth at the taste, blinked back the wetness, stared down at the empty canvas, and aggressively threw your breaking soul onto it. 

Your art teacher knows something’s up, and she offers to talk about it. You deny immediately, and flee the room. Maybe the behavior is convincing enough for her to schedule a talk with a counsellor in your behalf. Maybe this is the path to freedom... 

But, no, that can’t happen! You can’t leave your dad. You’re scared what will happen to him or to you. He might hurt you sometimes, but it’s probably not on purpose. And he loves you, at least you’re sure of that. It would be betrayal to relay the secret to anyone. 

You try to convince yourself that night that nothing’s really that wrong. From what you’ve seen in shows and movies, the partners are never afraid of each other. They both initiate kisses, and they’re... they’re usually around the same age... adults, man and woman — or teens, boy and girl... never related, never like  _this_...

But nothing has to be wrong if you don’t let it be. So you go up to your dad and for the first time ever, you kiss him first. He responds with delight, and next thing you know he pushes you onto the couch, and pulls your jeans down, kisses the soft skin around your hips and pulls sounds out from your lungs, breathy exhales and heat and pleasure. 

Of course,  _ of course _ he has to undo his own belt, and then he’s pushing into you with barely any prep, and you hold back the tears because crying means somethings wrong, crying means you don’t like this and you can’t stand to admit —  _ finally admit _ — that there is something heinous going on behind the walls of this seemingly innocent home. 

But he’s breaking you, he’s tearing you apart. From the inside out, your entire body is hurting, everything aches, he doesn’t try to ease the pain — _he never does!_ — and those tears slip down your cheeks against your will. 

“Dad, please...” you whisper, not sure what you’re asking for. 

He comes inside you, crying aloud through his climax, holding you down as if you might try to run should he relinquish his hold on you even a little bit. It might be true. It might not. 

You feel trapped and so, so sick. 

Queasy, nauseated, terrified, and disgusted with yourself, you wait for him to come down from the high. He doesn’t pull out immediately, and the feeling calms from painful to only uncomfortable, although every movement of his sends more sharp flares through your guts. 

“I... I love you,” you cry. You’re crying uncontrollably. When did that start? 

“I know.”

You and your dad are exceptionally close, more so than the average son and his father. 

You  hate it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a’ight time to yeET MYSELF INTO HELL, see ya later fellas

**Author's Note:**

> i'm wondering if i should just create another account and remove all this from my main account.  
> would any of you follow that if i just moved all the fics similar to this one over there? would anyone subscribe?  
> would it be more polite to those of my readers who are interested in my more friendly fics?? they don't need to see when i post another awful original work lmao


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